


Ten of Nights

by larissabernstein



Series: The Krolock Chronicles [3]
Category: Tanz der Vampire - Steinman/Kunze
Genre: Age Difference, Anachronisms, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Backstory, Bad Puns, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Canon Bisexual Character, Character Study, Count Krolock's Cunnilinguistic Katharsis, Dance of the Vampires - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Food Kink, Historical References, Humor, Identity Issues, Literary References & Allusions, Oral Sex, Original Broadway Cast, Pegging, Post-Canon, Romance, Sleep Paralysis, Smut, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22546633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: Count Krolock bares himself and tells his story, over the course of ten nights and mornings.
Relationships: Sarah Chagal/Graf von Krolock
Series: The Krolock Chronicles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726684
Comments: 21
Kudos: 9





	1. Limbo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vfrankenstein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vfrankenstein/gifts).



> And so it comes to pass that I write more fic for a musical that never happened.  
> As always when it comes to the cursed Broadway version of "Dance of the Vampires", I blame my friend Lillian for making me see the merits of this production and its sad & campy faux-Italian count. What would I be without our fruitful brainstorming and meta discussions?  
> The structure of this fic alludes (very loosely) both to Dante's _Comedìa_ and Giovanni (!!) Boccaccio's _Decameron_.

**Ten of Nights**

**1\. Limbo**

Weightless did it feel to be held, to be loved, and this was probably not a sensation to be trusted. It was somewhere between a flight on velvet wings, through night and shadow, carried on soft air currents, and a dance on two feet, over fields and grass and stone and polished parquet floor, in ever spinning circles across the globe and through time and history; yet, it was neither, with the familiar music gone and replaced by a new and jarring melody, and the comforting dark suddenly streaked with rays of light.

Everything in Krolock’s mind screamed at him to flee, to fight, to hide if nothing else, but his body did not obey; too soft were the arms holding him in their embrace, too insisting the hand that kept petting his hair as if he were a spooked child or balking horse, and he really should have taken offence by now. After all, this body of his had seen centuries fly by, and this mind had mingled with the most brilliant of artists and philosophers, and these hands and teeth had killed, again and again, and wielded great power. How easy it was to let himself be held and comforted by the simple innkeeper’s daughter, though, this wondrous being who now shared his bed and throne.

Letting the rising sun filter through the stained glass window and paint colourful patterns on the sheets of the bed, this marital bed, seemed hazardous and sinful — and downright stupid. He still could not believe it, not even when Sarah stretched out one bare leg beside him to catch some of the red and blue and yellow designs, and her skin stayed unmarred.

So this was their new kind of existence, and he had known the prophecy by heart, of course, each word, each turn of phrase, and he had taken its promises for granted and counted on them, but, as he realised now, he had never fully believed it before, not in a truly graspable way.

“It’s-a beautiful,” he heard himself murmur, but it still sounded more like a question than a declaration. Too clear was the memory of the hours after his first kill, centuries ago, when he had kept an unwise vigil next to the cold body of his victim, waiting for her to wake up as a vampiric creature just like himself, but things did not work as simply as this, he still had to learn a few lessons, and when dawn broke and gave way to ever increasing warmth and light of morning, he managed to escape at the very last second, albeit not exactly unscathed. It had hurt terribly, every part of uncovered skin that the rising sun had touched, felt as if it were on fire, but what had seared his mind with an even greater pain was the knowledge that he had failed the girl he had to leave behind during his hasty flight; the glaring light of day took away her last chance of joining the eternal ranks of the undead.

“It does not hurt anymore, does it?” Sarah now asked, and he became aware that he had voiced his thoughts and shared the painful memory with her aloud. The realisation frightened him for a moment, but then relief spread like a warm blanket all over him; this felt good actually, unburdening his heart like this, and being accepted despite it all.

“No,” he whispered and snuggled closer into her embrace, “la luce del sole, this cruel sunlight, it does not hurt anymore.” _Thanks to you_ , he added silently. When the crazy German professor had tried to kill him by breaking the window and inviting the sun into the nightly realm, it _had_ hurt, and Krolock had been sure that the prophecy was too late in saving him from a certain demise. But the initial burn had quietened to a minor smarting soon, and then to an itch or tickle, and apart from a rather inelegant ruddy complexion — a “sunburn”, Sarah had called it with no little amusement — which he had to hide beneath thick makeup for a week, there had been no serious damage. Truly a new era had arrived, with his kind joining the world once more.

Seeing, really seeing and believing, was still a different story, and so he turned until he could fully take in the glorious naked form of his bride, her pale curves decorated by dancing dots of light that somewhat resembled the flowers and ornaments of their bedroom window, its design now fully freed from the thick curtains.

“I shall tell you more about my life, this-a sad existence before you,” he heard himself promising, and this promise had not been too difficult to make. Sarah’s eyes met his with an appreciative expression, but then a more mischievous spark took over, and suddenly he found himself so quickly on his back that it forced the breath out of him, and before he knew it his queen was already straddling him and freeing his hard length, while sneaky bits of light ventured onto the forbidden territory of his very own body.

“One day you’ll even get rid of these when you’re with me,” she said in a tone that brooked no opposition and picked at the fabric of his fine evening wear. “You don’t need to hide anymore, Giovanni!” She added, and then his cock, in all its utterly obscene contrast to his full suit, already disappeared out of sight in the wet warmth between her legs, and it became increasingly difficult to form a rational thought, with basic needs and desires taking over and slowly drowning out his brooding. The idea of shedding his armour still made him a bit queasy, especially with this new experience of existing in broad daylight, because could he be any more bare and unveiled than he already was? But then this goddess started to move, and did it really matter what his current state of being was, what he could call it and what he should call himself, and how all of this was even possible, because this right here, this was real and good and highly gratifying, oh yes, and maybe it was scary, too, but who needed to commit to a defined point in time and space, when he could float, weightless and in blissful suspension?


	2. Lust

**2\. Lust**

Krolock had always been a man of science, and in a way he still was, because his thirst for knowledge easily rivalled his appetite for blood, and despite the many Faustian frustrations he had encountered during his quest for wisdom several lifetimes ago, he was still eager to explore and theorise and experiment. There was a wide array of kisses he had yet to categorise and research in-depth, and if he was going to spend the rest of his immortal existence on this project and write a never-ending series of treatises on it, it would be a time well spent.

There were the kisses of death that he knew all too well, kisses of deception, kisses with ulterior motives, kisses that transformed, and kisses that destroyed. There was the newly discovered kiss that began like a promise at nightfall and wandered through the darkness, over fabric and skin and deep into his heart, flickering like the flame of a candle, touching its wings here and there on parts of his body and mind of which he had never been fully aware before, and turning at times gentle, at other times rough and impatient, but always in motion, wandering and wanting and wishing, and this kiss miraculously maintained its force until the morning, when it braved dawn and defied inherent fears.

There had been the kiss of doom so long ago, not in sixteen-something, but very distinctly in sixteen-seventeen, and if Krolock had wanted to recall the exact date and hour, even those would have been available to him in the darkest corners of his memory. How could he forget the first time he drew blood? It had been the kiss, the kiss he’d so stupidly bestowed on the young woman’s lips, in utter hubris, because what madness had given him the idea that he could overcome his new nature and its demands, outdare the damning thirst? His lover had been innocent and clueless and oh-so-trusting, but worst: she had been so full of actual life that the temptation to taste her mortality just one more time, share a last night of passion before he was going to flap his cape with thespian flourish and disappear into an unsure future far away from her, had been too great to resist. He had wanted to spare her, save her, really, he had, but this kiss, so chaste and pure, had unleashed the beast in him, cursed him, the cursed one, again and for good.

“What was her name?” Sarah asked, between kisses of a decidedly different kind. Kisses that had no need of control or restraint, while limbs were entangled in a dance as primal as nature itself.

“Ah, it’s-a been so long ago,” Krolock replied after a tense moment. “Maybe Francesca, maybe Beatrice, or was it Laura? Pick a book and decide,” and he filled the expectant silence with gasps he easily elicited from the woman who was writhing under his caresses, surprisingly warm and real and, if not alive by scientific definition, so lively yet.

“What does that make you then, _Giovanni_?” The words finally escaped on the wings of a moan, but the emphasis she put on his first name was unmistakable.

He growled and hoped it did not sound too much like a desperate groan, but the way her arms and legs pulled him tighter into her full-body embrace was enough of a vital reassurance, and he had to seek out her neck now, had to breathe in the scent of her skin, intoxicating and alluring, and this, too, unleashed something in him, something dangerous and potent, but he could, yes, this time and until the end of all time, he could let go of whatever last vestiges of control he stubbornly clung to, because there was no innocence nor ignorance to be mourned, and there would be no cold body to leave behind and grieve over, come glaring day.

Sarah knew him all too well, it was both a terrifying and comforting fact, and when she turned her head just so, that her neck was even better exposed, he could not wait any longer. He pushed his hips more forcefully against hers, driving his cock deeper into her again and turning their lazy fucking anew into a matter of greater urgency. Just as she had on their first night together as unearthly husband and wife, and as on the many nights that had come since then, she willingly joined into his rhythm, urging him on and adding to the desire burning so strongly in him, and, of course, there was no blood anymore to harvest from this part of her body, but his mouth found the sweet spot on her neck and it took only a moment till he let his fangs pierce her skin there gently but with purpose. Her blood welled up in time with his thrusts, and he drank this ambrosia in utter rapture; there was quite a different taste to it, now that she was one of his kind, but it still tasted uniquely of Sarah, his Sarah, and this was the ultimate redemption, to be allowed the sin of wanton lust, the sin of losing control.

She moaned so passionately that he could feel the sound vibrate in his fangs, and it drove him almost over the edge. However, he knew he owed her an equal sacrifice first, and only with some effort did he manage to let go of her neck, licking up every single drop that had escaped his eager attack, and then her mouth was already on him, and she had quite a different way of partaking of him. Instead of quickly burying her fangs in his throat and sucking with all her might, she let her teeth wander over the column of his neck first, peppering his skin with shallow nips and bites — and he would have fascinating bruises and marks to show the next morning, he knew it and did not mind at all — until he was close to going insane from anticipation and his hips began to stutter in their rhythm. Only then did she puncture his skin down to the vein where ancient blood coursed through his body in the mimicry of life, sustaining a heartbeat only for theatrical purposes when the situation called for it, and it did now, as she replenished the blood he had stolen from her with his own, sucking almost violently, so that he could feel the pull all throughout his form, while her hips ground up against his with added vigour, chasing her own fulfilment and finally, finally driving him over the edge with not so much a shout this time but a long and blissful sigh, and there were going to be tears on his face, of this he was certain, but they were not going to be tears of sorrow and regret.


	3. Gluttony

**3\. Gluttony**

“You need to make up your mind, Giovanni,” she said when he came back into their stately chamber, bare feet tapping over marble floors in an unfamiliar rhythm, a platter of fruit and two glasses of wine carefully balanced in his hands, and he had to force himself not to stare at her naked body, spread out on their bed and on unashamed display in the warm glow of the candlelight, but focus on steadying the slight tremble of his fingers instead, lest he spill or drop anything and thoroughly ruin his elegant entrance. Keeping a dignified composure was already difficult enough, with only a banyan covering his nakedness instead of his usual suits, and no, _covering_ was the wrong word, as she had actively discouraged him from tying the sash, and so the robe was merely framing his nakedness, with his cock standing proudly and obscenely at attention, and that it did just that, despite a feeling of embarrassment that rivalled his organ in hefty weight and generous size, was both cause for relief and astonishment.

Seeing her eyes wander up and down his form, however, with an expression that he could only describe as ravenous, was worth the possible disgrace, and he was sure that not only the platter of fruit made her lick her lips.

“You were-a saying…?” He asked with as much nonchalance as he could muster while he felt his cock stiffen even more under her devouring gaze.

“Am I your queen, or your princess, a countess, or whatever am I called as your consort?”

Krolock put down the silver and crystal on the bedside table with only a soft clinking noise and felt himself relax a little. He shrugged off the banyan in what he hoped was a smooth motion and joined Sarah on the bed.

“Does that-a matter? You’re my queen-a of the night, my goddess, my…”

“Giovanni, please!” She put a finger to his lips to silence him, and he could not help a playful nip. “My parents wanted to know what kind of title they hold now.”

Ah, yes, the in-laws! Krolock sighed. Giving those peasants and their lover their own generous apartments in the west wing of his castle, a luxurious bed big enough for three included, wasn’t enough obviously; now they were craving a title of nobility.

“Carissima, Transylvania has seen-a different governments and sovereigns come and go, but the Krolocks have been counts for-a many centuries, with this castle and its-a surrounding estates our rightful property. This makes you, dearest wife, technically a countess.”

He reached out to grab the wine glasses from the table and handed one to her. “That one should-a find your favour, luv, it got-a good ratings in _Wine Advocate_.”

She took the offered glass gracefully, but he could see that she was still waiting for an answer.

“As for your parents, if it-a makes you happy, I could-a write to Emperor Franz Joseph and suggest they deserve-a ennoblement, for whatever service to crown and country; we’d have to think-a something up. Unfortunately, the official records list-a both as rather dead, so this might pose-a bureaucratic problem of sorts. And it-a would exclude Magda. But I don’t see why they could not-a just call themselves Lord and Lady, excuse me, _Ladies_ , and be content with-a that. They are ennobled by their new-a form of existence, are they not?”

He knew that he should not bask that much in his own smugness, especially not with someone as intelligent and perceptive as Sarah by his side, but he could not help a grin.

Sarah gazed into her wine in pondering silence, but then she gave a redeeming nod and he felt triumphant.

Or not, because she played his game with equal skill. “Humour them with a monthly dinner invitation to our table, and I am sure they will be content indeed.”

Krolock groaned but leaned in for a kiss, and this was as much agreement as he was willing to show. “It’s-a all fine and good, but can we leave your-a parents out of our bed now?”

Sarah laughed against his lips, a curious, yet most pleasant tickling sensation, but the kiss turned esurient quickly, the dry merlot they had sipped adding a different and exotic taste to this dance of lips and tongues, and with a last effort of control he rescued their wine glasses and put them back on the table.

“What about our midnight snack that you insisted on?” He whispered and was fully prepared to skip it entirely, leave the mortal sustenance to rot and spoil on its silver platter, and just move on to much more pleasant delights. There was really no need for a vampire to eat and drink common food, apart from the regular feeding on fresh blood, and maybe apart from his occasional coffee in the library, but this was really more a guilty pleasure than a necessity, and to indulge in human meals seemed almost like a weakness. Sarah, however, had managed to make the idea palatable to him again, and even if he never forgot to mention how superfluous such a whimsy was, he had no choice but to follow her lead in this and learn to cope with the feeling of sensual pleasure and sensory stimulus it gave him.

“Oh, we shall have it!” Sarah replied with conviction, and then there was already a slice of peach presented to him, her dainty fingers offering the morsel to his mouth, and it was only natural to accept it, let it burst with succulent sweetness on his tongue, let his teeth tear into the soft flesh, and he could see how she clearly enjoyed his enjoying it, and such a small bite did indeed kindle a bigger appetite, this too was only natural. It felt sinful to take a piece of fruit and feed it to his queen, his vampire queen that had no need of such sustenance either, but this was not the point here, he understood it all too well now as her lips took the quartered fig out of his hand, grazing the tips of his fingers with her teeth ever so gently.

Feeding each other like this was a special act of consumption, and that surely elevated the meal to something worthwhile, and if he were completely honest with himself, he was now at a point where this was not anymore about indulging Sarah, but such a snack in all its lavish glory was a feast for his senses that he had come to actively crave.

It made sense to prepare such platters himself, to pick food items with an interesting mouthfeel or an extravagant taste, and such midnight snacks in bed simply had to include fruits rich in juice that guaranteed a certain amount of mess, and of course she did it again this time, he had waited for it in eager anticipation, and she now bit into one of those peach slices that were just a bit too big to devour in one bite, and the sticky wetness dripped down her lips and chin, in small rivulets over her neck, some of it pooling in the hollow between her collarbones, some of it landing in drops on her breasts, and he followed the trail eagerly to lap up every part of this offering; this was certainly the best way to enjoy the treat — combined with the taste of her skin, the traces of salty sweat from their earlier strenuous activities, the unique flavour and scent of this beloved woman whose dreams had been so hungry and had called out to him in ardent longing.

Who cared if ancient cultures had ascribed to figs the symbolism of passionate lust, and to peaches the power of procuring immortality? Krolock had no need for such superstition, and the ostentatious symbolism did not influence his choice of fruits, as long as their taste and aroma complemented Sarah’s in the best possible way, doing justice to both his queen and his own concupiscent hunger. Licking wine and fruit juice from her breasts until she found a loud and rapturous climax from the efforts of his talented mouth alone, was a different way of worshipping the god of appetite, possibly a more sinful one, with the added twist of the human element, but it was one that he was never going to tire of, and while nothing was ever going to sate his hunger for more, it was still an experience that managed to fill him, fill him with warmth and the feeling that this was simply right and quite deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breaking news: Local vampire turns into fruitbat.


	4. Greed

**4\. Greed**

“It’s-an old body,” he said, with a resigned snort somewhere between an apology and an explanation, but both conveniently cushioned in humour.

Sarah hummed against his skin, and he felt this sound, which had a decidedly appreciative tone instead of just one of simply neutral affirmation, echo gently somewhere deep between his ribs. She lifted her head from where it had been resting on his chest and effectively using him as a pillow, and the intensity of her gaze caught him rather unprepared, turning his attempt at levity by means of a self-deprecating statement into something that made him feel vulnerable and exposed.

“Terribly old, dear Giovanni,” she said in a very somber voice and intently looked at his face, which made him slightly self-conscious, because she was probably cataloguing every single line and age spot and those grey streaks at his temples, “two-hundred-eighty years at least! I might take pity on you and let you recover a little longer before I shall demand my conjugal rights once again.” Her bright smile broke through the serious facade then, and he could not help laughing along, but the moment also called for spontaneous honesty.

“Three-hundred-twenty-eight years, cara mia,” Krolock whispered, awed by his own bold confession, and there was a great weight attached to this random number, not as if ageing had posed any concern for their immortal existence, but it emphasised the length of life he had experienced before he happened to become a vampire, six decades of inordinate longing and wanting and grasping for things that always seemed to move out of reach or that became overshadowed by even greater ambitions once he managed to attain them. These grey streaks and the lines here and there? Acquired long before he was turned into a creature of the night! These marks were testament to his life-long Faustian struggle, his exhausting mortal hunt for both material and immaterial wealth, for knowledge and power, and for something undefined, but explicitly rare and valuable — this much he had known —, something that he had hoped would give meaning to his quest, something that would let him go far beyond mere mortal monotony; and now, these marks of humanity, of decay, of failure even — now they were immortalised on his features, etched onto this body for good. No matter how strongly he preferred to see himself as a thriving Mephistopheles, this body would unmask him as an — if not dying, so at least — aged Faust, while his consort would stay an eighteen years young woman in appearance and spirit forever.

His dark musings came to a halt when he became aware of gentle fingers caressing his face now, and wandering up into his hair to comb through it lazily, and it was scary to admit how much he needed these touches right now.

“Three-hundred-twenty-eight years,” Sarah repeated in a tone bordering on reverence, never pausing in her loving ministrations. “To think of all the things you’ve seen and done — long before I was even born.” Her voice took on a mournful note and her eyes began to glitter with unshed tears. “It’s as if I hardly know you at all.”

“Sarah! Cara Sarah, no!” Krolock almost shouted and felt his melancholy give way to a much more urgent concern; on any given day he was prepared and ready to face his own sadness and beat it into submission with a witty remark or terrible joke, but to see sorrow on this sweet woman’s features was too much. He caught the hands roaming his face in his own and brought them to his lips, bestowing a kiss on her skin that he could only hope conveyed what words failed to express. “If there is-a anyone to know me at all, it is-a you, mia Sarah! You ‘ave touched parts of me I never knew about before!”

And it was true, Krolock had to admit with no little shock at the realisation. Her eyes were the mirror that made the impossible happen, that let him see himself — sans make-up or costume, without dramatic stage light or smoke and magical tricks. Her hands had peeled away so many layers of his assumed roles already, bared him down to his skin and bones, skin marred by time, and bones and joints creaking from age, and still, her hands had nothing but gentleness for him, and her desires were clearly burning strongly for this old and exasperatingly human body, burning like the flame he had always wished to be, alight with passion and love and — life.

“And you have an eternity to get to know all of me,” he added and wrapped his arms around her, holding her as close as their physical forms would allow, feeling her relax in his embrace. This was a mortifying statement, even a threat, both to her and to himself, Krolock saw this with certainty — because would she even like what there was hidden deeply within him, and would he be able to bear this boundless confrontation with his own reflection? — but it had felt right to utter these words in their current situation, no matter if he had just sentenced himself to a level of introspection that was way beyond his comfort zone.

“How did you become what you are?” Sarah asked, but there was no pressure in her words nor impolite curiosity; for such a young and free-spirited person, she certainly knew how to approach difficult subjects.

“Once upon-a time, there was an innocent boy,” he began, but no, he could not finish the sentence, with the words sticking in his throat like molasses, sweet and deceptive and altogether wrong, and the silence after this abrupt stop weighed heavily on him.

“You don’t need to tell me, if you’re not ready,” Sarah tightened their hug and came to his rescue yet again, saving him even from his own lies.

Krolock sighed. “You shall hear the story of-a my _wolf_ one day,” and maybe the prospect of having an eternity ahead to fulfil this promise seemed rather convenient all of a sudden, “but to respond to your question in-a one word: greed.”

Maybe that was too simple and reduced both the complexity and ingenuity of his sins, Krolock thought to himself, but Sarah seemed to be satisfied with this tentative answer. And maybe greed was indeed what had driven him from the start: be so much more than a Transylvanian nobleman, seek your fortune all over the globe! He had studied ravenously, the quest for wisdom turning into a selfish and vain obsession, had skipped many a night of sleep and amassed wealth instead, had not only tried to make as many experiences as possible, but to bodily possess them, the fear of loss accompanying his every move; he had loved copiously — or rather, had believed it was love, but the sequence of lovers had only made him aware of a profound lack in all these affairs, and so even affection and passion were just another manifestation of the bottomless and destructive need that kept driving him on, but in truth only served to nourish itself, not satisfy his desires. He had read thousands of books and written dozens himself, but, of course, his own library had to eclipse even the largest and most sophisticated collections, and contain every book ever written. How could he blame his vampiric existence for a character trait that had been so innately his from the start? His transformation had only operated with the raw materials already present, and the never-ending appetite of his fangs was a natural result of the insatiable longing already defining his life.

 _I am nothing but a creature longing for things I can’t have._ But, oh, had he just voiced this aloud? He had, obviously, he had, and Sarah turned far enough in their embrace to reach his lips and kiss him, swallow all the words that threatened to spill from his mouth in a confession he was not willing to make yet.

However, what about the things he now could have, and indeed had? It was incredibly hard to believe and accept, but while the hunger for more was sure to never end, there was a new, hitherto unwonted quality to it: it still fanned its own flame, but it was not an end in itself anymore; satisfaction was suddenly attainable, in small increments, as stepping stones between bouts of wanting, and all at once an absurd emotion demanded Krolock’s attention: he felt young, really young, and this was probably a first in all of his lifetime, mortal and immortal combined.


	5. Wrath

**5\. Wrath**

It was at the crack of dawn when Krolock finally gave in to his sleeplessness and wrestled himself out of the soft warm shackles of twisted sheets and blankets, and a pair of arms, heavy from sleep and barely budging, and he tried to straighten the duvet sufficiently to cover Sarah with it, until only her still and relaxed face and the tousled curls framing it remained visible. Her lack of breathing was all that gave away her vampiric state of existence, and when he probed her dreams he only encountered the comforting black of night. Oh, to enjoy such beatific and innocent sleep! The sight was perfectly charming and made something flutter inside himself, but he also envied her this peace of mind.

On quiet feet he retrieved his banyan from the floor and slipped out onto the balcony, where the chill of early morning and faint stars fading in the twilight greeted him. It was a whimsy, nothing more, but no one was here to witness it, so he inhaled deeply, drinking in the cool, crisp air around him, soothing his restless mind and refreshing his senses. Soon Aurora’s first bands of pink and bronze were going to paint the sky, the canvas rapidly changing and gaining brightness, until the sun was finally going to break the horizon and rise over the trees, to illuminate the world with its destructive rays.

He had no reason anymore to fear its might, to flee and hide, no, he could now face the adversary with his head held high, challenging whatever deity people imagined in the skies. He could even enjoy the spectacle, if he chose to indulge in even greater whimsy, and marvel at the beauty poets had sung about since the dawn of mankind itself, but the impulse to hate it, hate this sunlight and all it represented with a vengeance, was still strong and intoxicating. Maybe it was petty for the triumphant victor to sneer at the adversary, to gloat and preen in the glow of daylight, but this was still a better and more dignified motivation than to boldly admit that watching nature come awake in a thousand iridescent hues gave him an odd kind of pleasure.

 _Dies irae, dies illa_ , the trembling mortals would whisper in fearful voices, always in wait for the day of wrath that was going to dissolve the world in ashes. Krolock could not suppress a chuckle. The day of wrath _had_ struck, namely the wrath of day, it had struck and burnt and tried to deliver judgement, but he had not crumbled to dust, and neither had the fellow representatives of his kind across a world that was so beneath them, but still had no choice now but to carry them. The creatures had risen indeed from the sepulchres of the regions, and splendidly so, but the cursed were not to be silenced and cast into the acrid flames.

It was a specific form of retribution, to acknowledge the injustice of a world that would have preferred to shun his kind, a world that had made him in the first place, with a cold sneer instead of hot rage; after spending too many seasons in seclusion, first raging against his curse, then making the most of it, but always finding his hopes and expectations denied, his appetites endlessly stoked but never fulfilled, it was easy to take the world not too seriously anymore. There was as much power in laughter, no matter how forced, as there was passion in fight, but both were expressions of an all-engulfing wrath that spanned centuries. The world at large, in its stinking and enticing normalcy, was a truly despicable thing, taxing his patience, and it deserved his ire.

Again and again, Krolock mused by himself, had he let the furies run wild when it came to appeasing his appetite, and there had been shame at his loss of control; however, was he not also an artist of sorts, a creator who transformed by means of destruction? By taking lives he elevated them, and there was poetic beauty to be found in a curse that could not have been more elaborately devised by the authors of the grand epics. As such, his wrath was not any worse or more sinful than the wrath of God Himself, if one was willing to believe in a divine entity, and if he had been indeed created in His image and transformed by a destiny that obeyed His will, then surely this part of his existence was the truest manifestation.

The scenery in front of his eyes was starting to bloom in vivid colours, and Krolock felt melancholy and anger at war with each other in his mind. He had faced fate and time as both his enemies and allies, but when had his righteous anger turned against himself, gnawing at him and more and more disenchanting him? And what did the fulfilment of the prophecy, this almost mythical turn of fate, mean for a man so used to being denied, and for a world so used to denying him? How could he even begin to grasp the miracle of this new reality, while the sun kept rising every day in mundane implicitness, as if nothing had changed at all?

“Enjoying the sunrise, are we?” Sarah’s arms came around his waist from behind, and he felt her rise on her toes to hook her chin over his shoulder, in a gentle and yet claiming embrace, the heavy silk taffeta of her long dressing gown whispering against the thick embroidery of his banyan, and tickling his bare ankles.

He only gave a resigned grunt and grasped her arms to pull her even tighter against his body, but then an abrupt urge made him think better of it, with the warmth and sweetness of her close presence filling all his senses, and her carefree teasing riling him up, and he quickly spun her around until they had switched position, and if the sudden force surprised her, she still went along and let him handle her willingly.

“Ma sì!” He whispered into her neck, and the words came out rather gruffly, “I think I shall enjoy it.”

Sarah laughed, obviously not only putting up with his angry tone, but finding it rather amusing, and let him bend her form forwards until her elbows came to rest on the broad sill of the balustrade, and he quickly untied his sash and after a short and impatient struggle with the insane amount of fabric enveloping her, he could finally crush and push the many yards of silk aside, freeing her legs and bottom, and her sharp gasp was the only sound of protest when he entered her a little too forcefully, stretching her delicious cunt around his girth with the zealousness of the angry young man that needed to rage against the world and its people and the sun glaring down on all of them without distinction.

Her hips rocked back against him eagerly, meeting him thrust by thrust, and even if the chance of passing-by servants or family members was close to nil at that time of the day, and the view from down below in the gardens would possibly not allow them to see much more than the comital couple standing behind each other on the balcony and watching the sunrise, with the two of them more or less modestly covered in silk — but “seriously, Giovanni,” she ground out between laboured breaths, “how could anyone mistake our movements for anything else but vicious fucking??” —, the appearance was more than slightly ruined in any case by his exerted grunts, and skin slapping skin in vulgar percussion, and her shameless moans resounding loudly over the gardens and in all likelihood also throughout the major part of their sylvan estate. The lack of finesse in this agitated coupling was surely going to make him feel embarrassed and a tad guilty later, Krolock knew that, but right now the urge was stronger than anything else, and Sarah responded so enthusiastically, that rutting her against the balustrade was certainly the most beautiful way to transform the smouldering rage into something truly worthwhile, to take it out on his willing and equally cursed consort, accomplice in fate-defying sin, and to prove it to this sunlight, that kept staunchly reappearing day after day, just how much power of endurance they had to show for themselves.

Endurance, however, was probably not the operative word in a physical sense, he had to admit, with the pressure building inside him, and her moans escalating to screams, and how could he not be pulled along by her ecstasy, when her wet warmth pulsed around him and squeezed him without mercy, no, he had to give in, give himself over to the thrill of pleasure, and with one final thrust he felt himself explode in spasms and his vision whiten, with the sunlight having very little bearing on the phenomenon.

“Look,” Sarah finally said, and he winced when she straightened and gave a soft sigh of discomfort at their bodies’ separating from each other, because this was really not what he had intended when he had let go of his control, “the pretty colours are all gone now.”

Indeed, Krolock found when he was squinting at the now overly bright sky, no touch of pink or orange was left, and the age-old yearning to seek shelter in the dark was making itself felt once more, no matter how uncalled-for. The cool morning breeze had a sobering effect when it hit sweat-damp skin.

“Bed?” He asked, looking steadfastly down at the suddenly highly interesting pattern of the balcony’s floor tiles, and he did not even try to mask his hopeful and fairly desperate tone. “For-a nap, I mean.” There was an awkward tension in the air, and he could not help feeling rather helpless and shy, with his cock hanging wet and spent between the pleats of his robe, and Sarah standing there in her rumpled gown and probably quite sore from his reckless egotism, and being here on the balcony in plain sight, well-lit as if it were the stage of his own tragicomedy, was too much to bear in dignity.

“Bed,” Sarah replied and then she already took his hand and pulled him back inside into their room. “I think I got quite enough sleep already, but I don’t mind seconds, be it a nap or other activities, if it’s with you.”

So he let himself be disrobed and tucked into bed, and it took him merely a moment after Sarah had drawn the curtains close and joined him under the duvet, coaxing him wordlessly to let his head rest against the soft pillow of her breasts, until he fell into a deep and peaceful sleep, devoid of dreams and black as night.


	6. Heresy

**6\. Heresy**

“Between-a Venetian and carmine,” Krolock said, “with-a the deep glow of rubies, especially in candlelight.” His eyes followed the thin wet line of red along Sarah’s neck, and he could not resist picking up some of the precious drops with the tip of one finger to better show it to her. “Centuries ago, illuminators would-a have killed to get-a small sample of your blood, to colour bibles and-a prayer books, and scribes would-a have brought their words to life with it.”

Sarah groaned and rolled her eyes at him, and he could only marvel once again at the playful and utterly refreshing disrespect she used to show every now and then, especially when she suddenly caught his finger and licked off the drops. She pursed her lips, “I still think you taste better!”, then broke into laughter, a sound which was never going to stop filling him with a warm and tender feeling, he was absolutely sure.

“Oh, Giovanni,” she spluttered between hysterical giggles, “painting with my blood? You really do like to play with your food.” Her body shook with laughter now, and he could not help joining in, her insouciant silliness too infectious and altogether precious.

“Actually,” and he calmed down a little to find a more serious voice, feeling a sudden urge to share and tell a story of his life, and maybe this was a bad idea, but he had to try. “I once wrote-a poem on a woman’s ivory skin, with blood-a freshly drawn from her neck.”

Sarah hummed. “A lover? It must have been a lover.”

He looked carefully at her face, but there was not a single sign of jealousy nor unease visible, and of course, jealousy would have been absurd anyway, but discomfort at his sudden frankness was still an option he did not feel entirely confident to risk.

“Yes,” he finally admitted, “we shared the bed for-a night, a single night. And she did-a love me.”

Sarah stayed silent but looked expectantly at him, the question tangible between them, and Krolock felt pulled back into an uncomfortable memory. The preacher’s daughter had fallen for his charms and his wit, and she had been Sarah’s age at the time; such an innocent, protected girl, and yet he, this old stranger, had caught her eye, and he had done nothing to protect her from bringing doom upon herself, as he could not resist her purity of heart and soul, all the things he would never have, and the fact that she was a preacher’s daughter had sweetened the deal and tickled his taste for irony; leading astray the child of a holy man was as grand as laughing directly into the face of a god that — if He existed at all — had withheld the blessings of life from him.

“Margarethe,” he whispered, and Sarah nodded in understanding, clearly caring not a bit whether the name was truly the girl’s; each Faust had to have a Margarethe sooner or later in his life, after all. And this one had let him into her room, opening the door to sin without even grasping the full extent of his wickedness at that moment; she had let him into her arms and her bed. Krolock saw it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as a painting: a small simple chamber, a narrow bed, her eyes trusting and full of an immature love he had not been worthy of. The year was… seventeen-thirty-two, yes, his memory did not fail him.

“How could you know that she was not the queen you were looking for?” Sarah now asked and a frown darkened her face, making him instantly feel guilty about sharing too much.

Krolock gave a mechanical shrug. “I knew.” There had been no lunar eclipse waiting for him; she had the wrong birthdate, and while he had instinctually known that he had to have her, possess her, sacrifice her, there had been no existential pull towards her person.

“And still you wrote a poem of love on her skin?” Sarah’s voice held no judgement, only mild disbelief.

He shook his head, trying to get rid of the image in his mind; vinaceous words had been blooming on her bosom and her thighs like florid lies. “It-a did not make right the wrongs I had done.” Indeed, the words had not imbued the sentiment with truth, he saw the painful scene now, and the girl had seen through it then, and that had been the end of it, an end that she had sought and found in the morning’s rising sun.

There were no more words coming forth, and maybe, Krolock thought, it was better this way, after he had already shared too much of his sorrow; he could only make it worse the more he revealed; he had been a ruthless person, maybe still was, and how could he bring that to someone’s attention so brutally who was chained to him for eternity; why make her aware how unworthy he truly was?

Sarah sighed next to him, and then he felt her hand on his face, a tender swab of one finger drawing a line from one eye down his cheek.

“Transparent, clear like a crystal, entirely unfit for drawing or writing,” she said, holding up her finger that shimmered with wetness, “and yet,” she licked it, “it has the taste of salt and tells me so much more.”

He wanted to kiss her then, embrace her vigorously, and just whisper all these words he could not speak out loud into her hair and her skin, but she just pushed him back onto the bed and laid this very finger against his lips, in the universal gesture of silence, before she pulled aside the blankets around them and began to let her lips and hands wander over his broad chest, and down his belly, lower still to his thighs, torturously ignoring a needier part of his anatomy; it was understood that not only did she prefer him to be quiet, but to let her take the lead.

Her poem clearly did not idle for long in one place, fragmentary syllables and single letters pressed as soft kisses here and there, flitting as spectres over his body, and he could only watch and feel and live in the sensations of the moment, wondering what she was going to do next. If only she would stop neglecting this one part of him, when it was all but straining hard and heavy towards her, and take pity on the poor and wretched sinner and absolve him from his… — Oh, she did have mercy after all, and her hands and lips worked together in skilled accord, turning neglect into acute attention, but that was a different form of torture — the way she gently stroked his shaft and slowly, oh-so-slowly let lips and tongue busy themselves with his scrotum, not leaving out a single bit of its surface, and she made it abundantly clear that she was in no hurry, no, this was something to be savoured, _he_ was to be savoured and spoiled and taken care of, and then this talented tongue wandered wordlessly along the seam of his sack, and he could no longer hold back unashamed moans.

In another life, even just a few weeks ago, he would have been embarrassed about baring himself like that, of enjoying this sinful worship so damn much, but right now, he found he could not bring himself to care; instead, the sighs and moans dripped from his lips like messy drops of delicious fresh blood after an especially wanton feeding. And when she took one of his testicles carefully between her lips, sucking it into the warmth of her mouth, he could not suppress a strangled shout. His hands left the place where they had brutally grabbed and mangled the bed sheets in his fists, white-knuckled and tingling from the exertion, to cautiously hold her head, bury his fingers in her luscious curls, and she allowed him that much active movement, but he took great care not to grab her too strongly; he was only as much guiding her on as he was gently holding on to her, lest he shatter.

This divine mouth now switched to the other testicle, bestowing as much love and attention on it as she had on its twin, and he could feel how both tightened and the pressure was building; he would not be able to keep it together much longer, and he groaned and gently tried to pry her off, because this was too much right now, too intense, and finally she showed mercy once again and chose to understand, let go of his sack with a final indulgent lick along this most sensitive seam, and this was bordering on painful now, but then this mouth sank down around his girth, taking his thick length deep into her throat, and what was that, what a curious sensation, how her throat muscles worked him. He was about to perish for good, there was no other way, when he suddenly felt the spit-slick tip of one finger prod him in that most obscene place behind his sack, gliding over sensitive skin and finally finding and rubbing at the rim of the tight little hole — how could she know what that did to him? how could she know how much this forbidden part of his anatomy craved touch and fulfilment? — and then the finger slipped in, and he came, shouting, crying, tears streaming down his face, but she kept working him in both places, milking his cock for every last drop and thrusting her finger into his arse, and, “oh my God!”, he died, right there and then, he died and flew, and it was glorious.

“God has left the building, my love,” was the first thing he heard when he regained his faculties again, and what little had remained of his tension left him in a fit of raucous laughter that shook the both of them.


	7. Violence

**7\. Violence**

When Krolock entered their bedroom, entirely au naturel, but for once not even remotely bothered by it, because whatever part of his brain usually questioned and doubted and spoilt his pleasure, was now simply too overruled by arousal and anticipation, he found Sarah already waiting for him in bed. However, when he came closer, he saw that her hands were toying with some kind of object, something big and white and shiny, and — he stopped short.

“What… how…,” he cleared his throat and tried again, “where did-a you find this?”

Sarah gazed up at him, a smile on her face and a very mischievous look in her eyes. It was a stupid question, of course, he knew exactly where she had found the item, naturally, she had found it where he had left it, stupidly, in his bedside cabinet. And so his wonderful queen was now idly playing with the porcelain godemiché he had commissioned for himself half a century ago while travelling Italy. He felt his face glow and was sure that it displayed probably the deepest shade of red it had ever been able to achieve. But before he could get any more embarrassed, and worse, embarrassed about being embarrassed, he noticed that the object did look a bit different than the last time he had laid eyes and hands on it. There were now leather straps attached to it, at the thick base where the shaft of the faux-cock ended in a pair of hefty porcelain balls. She could not mean to…? There was no way she…?

At his questioning gaze, Sarah’s smile grew even wider. “Your guess is correct, dear husband. I intend to use this on you tonight.”

He gasped for air and immediately regretted showing yet another weakness. “You can’t… I can’t…”

“Giovanni,” she addressed him now in a much more serious tone, “do you think you are the only one to listen in on your spouse’s dreams? I knew about this thing for quite some time, and I know about the male lovers in your past.”

Krolock sat down on the bed, defeated and quite at a loss. There had been lovers of all genders in his life, both in the decades before and in the centuries since his transformation, but with Sarah as his consort, they had all disappeared far away into a distant corner of his brain, banished to memories bitter-sweet and full of regret, because too many of these affairs had ended in bloodshed and grief. Had he not always killed the things for which he had yearned, consumed them with his inordinate desire, because destruction was so deeply engrained in his ways?

The handsome page of Napoleon the Great? Krolock had desired him, in all his bashful youth and temptation, and the boy had followed him all-too willingly; eighteen-hundred-thirteen was the year, yes, Krolock remembered it too well, the pleasure he had found in the young man’s arms, the love that was offered so freely and courageously, defying the fear of the sin that religion used to ascribe to sodomy, — and then the damning appetite of his own curse that made him consume more than the beloved had been prepared to give, and the man had left him, betrayed and hurt and forever transformed, and he was probably still roaming the earth now, hopefully in acceptance of his curse, but Krolock could never hope to be forgiven. The page had been his last male lover, because no further suitable opportunity had presented itself since then, but Krolock’s body had craved this variation of sexual pleasure often enough, and it was the modern and scientific way to find at least an artificial substitute to quench a part of his thirst, and the godemiché, or _signor_ _diletto_ , as the Italians used to call it with a knowing smirk, turned out to be a delight indeed, and at least it did not add to the list of his victims.

“I was surprised,” Sarah now spoke up again, “to find this lovely object in a very familiar shape and size.” She laughed, but there was no mockery in the bright sound. “Giovanni,” she exclaimed with something close to mirth in her voice, “you fucked yourself with a replica of your own cock?!”

Now he had sufficient proof: he was able to blush even more deeply than previously thought possible. “It’s-a good size and shape, no?” He murmured, and that came out rather petulant and defensive.

Sarah moved closer to cup his face in tender reassurance. “Oh, it certainly is.”

Krolock felt mollified by her touch and acceptance — this wonderful woman would never stop surprising him! —, but the topic at hand still made him nervous. “You cannot be serious, cara mia. Why would-a you want to, ah, put that, erm, into, you know, why would-a you want to debase yourself and-a… fuck… il mio culo?”

“I certainly know what pleasures this part of the body holds, my love. You have shown that to me quite a few times, and I hope you will do that many more times to me, and if your erudite books are to be trusted, this place holds even much more pleasure for you. You do like it when I touch you there.”

“But… it-a won’t do anything for you!” He found himself stammer rather sheepishly, running out of arguments.

“Hm,” Sarah said and held up the dildo in her hands, “this is to be seen. It will certainly rub against me in a pleasant way, and if that is not enough to make me find my own _delight_ , I trust you will take care of me later.”

He probably looked at her still unconvinced, because she added, “Please, Giovanni, let me give this to you. I really want that,” and with a pointed glance at his cock that had stubbornly retained its stiffness despite the rather awkward situation, “and so do you, don’t deny it.”

There was nothing more he could think of to dissuade her from her plan, and so he just nodded, already overwhelmed by the mere idea of letting her do this to him and for him, to let her open him up and — let her fuck his arse, because, oh my god, this is what it would be, to put it candidly, and he felt spikes of arousal and fear lance through him.

“Look at me,” Sarah said, and he only now became aware that he had stared down onto the sheets far too long to not let it seem like he was avoiding her eyes. And so he looked at her again, and what a sight that was, with Sarah taking the leather straps of the godemiché that she had fashioned for it so creatively and fastening them around her hips and between her legs; it was an entirely obscene and almost vulgar sight, his beloved queen, in all her nude glory, with her hair open and her curves soft and inviting, the full luscious breasts, and the swell of her hips — and this enormous white cock sticking out from between her legs where he was used to seeing a triangle of curls, with her perfect cunt hidden so modestly, and now there was this monstrous fake male organ instead, _his_ cock, because that is what it was, _his_ cock, on full and uninhibited display, a threatening promise.

Krolock swallowed and felt himself tremble in anticipation.

“Touch it,” she said, and there was a firm and unfamiliar command beneath the gentle tone of her voice, and his hands moved of their own volition to cautiously touch the porcelain. It should have been so familiar to him, but instead, it was as if he touched it for the very first time.

“Feel the length, and the weight, and see how thick it is. This is going to impale you, my love, this is going to go all the way into your body, and I will fuck you the way you use to fuck me. Gently, if you deserve it, brutally, if I wish it, but I will not be merciful either way. You can take it, every inch of this beautiful cock, and I will not stop until you fall apart.”

“We vampires don’t-a do so well with being impaled,” he made one last attempt at deflecting and tried to fake a grin, but fell silent when she raised a disapproving brow at him. He let her turn him around and guide him onto his hands and knees, and then her hands were already roaming over his back and arse, caressing him gently, and at least he knew that his posterior was one of his best assets, firm and well-shaped despite his age, and this made him just a little less self-conscious in this position. This confidence found an abrupt end, however, the moment her hands dipped lower and pulled at the cheeks of his arse, exposing his forbidden hole, and the knowledge that she was openly gazing at this place, registering every twitch and flutter, seeing how desperate he was for this, made him flustered all over again, and he could not help tensing up.

“Shhh,” Sarah whispered and resumed her loving caresses, over thighs and hips and his butt, and then her fingers came closer to his hole again, touching it ever so gently, and he could not suppress a moan at that simple touch already.

He heard her unscrew a little bottle — likely the olive oil that he had found missing from the kitchen earlier this day, his mind supplied, the woman had really thought of everything — and then her hands were back, fingers now slick, and she took her time playing with the rim of his hole, making it hungrier and more impatient every second, and it came almost as relief when the tip of one finger slid in, all too easily, and if that surprised the both of them, how quickly and willingly his body accepted her, she did not waste the opportunity but let her finger slide in and out of it, adding more oil, until she could force in a second finger, and this made him pant in earnest now, with the sensation of being stretched and filled taking over his whole being. However, she seemed not satisfied enough with the preparation yet, and before he knew it, three of her fingers were massaging his hole and stretching the tight channel, and when they left his body, it felt like a terrible loss, with the empty void in him crying out to be filled again. His wish was answered sooner than he could utter it, as the tip of the cool porcelain replaced her fingers, and he could feel the pressure of the thick head against his rim, stretching it to its limits, bordering on painful — was this how it felt for her when he took her, so overwhelming, all-consuming? — and then the ring of muscle gave way, and the head popped in in a rather sudden move, sliding in to the sound of his cry, because that was so much, the thickness of this head, and the pressure, and he knew there was so much more waiting for him.

“Oh, you are doing so well, Giovanni,” he heard her praise him, and maybe that should have embarrassed him, but instead it made him shudder with lust, and he felt his spine dip just a little more to give her even better access, and he felt his hungry hole open up more to the intrusion, craving it, inviting it in, and she fed him inch by inch of the thick dildo, every artificial vein and all of the texture heightening the slow glide, until the hard porcelain length was completely swallowed up by his body, and he felt the faux balls press against his own sack, and her silken thighs pushed against the back of his own.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” She asked through a smile he could not see but clearly hear, and gave him a minute to adjust, and once again he was amazed how perfectly this woman knew his body and its needs, how she took the time and effort to observe his reactions so attentively, that she could easily claim to know him better than he did himself, and certainly she was paying so much more attention and bestowing so much more love and kindness on this body than he had ever been willing to waste on himself.

And then — she began to move, withdrawing a little and pushing back in, and withdrawing a little more at the next move and pushing back in a little harder, and this was just too good, too much! He struggled to keep the sobs in, but it was a lost cause, and maybe that didn’t matter after all, not with Sarah who accepted him with all his weaknesses and faults, and so he just let it go, allowed his body to breathe in and out in excited gulps, let his eyes fill with much needed tears, and each exhalation came in wet sighs and moans, and that was the right thing to do and allow, he immediately knew it, when he felt one of her hands on his hips start caressing his skin, rubbing in circles that were both soothing and arousing, and she murmured, softly but clearly: “Yes, love, let me hear you, show me how much you want it!”

Oh, he did want it, wanted it more than anything else, and his vocalisations and sighs seemed to drive her on, as she picked up power and speed and took him — yes, there was no better word for it, she _took_ him — more forcefully, and now he understood how she was telling the truth when she had assured him time and again how much she loved his own impetuous moods, when he all but plowed her cunt or arse, with a violence that often made him apologise later, but she was right; there was a special magic in being claimed so unequivocally, with a force that did not allow any doubt or protest. Each thrust into his tight channel seemed to mark him, branded him with its delicious kind of pain, and cried “mine, mine, mine”, and he submitted easily and gladly to this claim, yes, he was hers, all of his was hers, and she could do with him as she wished, mete out pleasure, pleasure he did not deserve, like a punishment, a punishment he did deserve, for his many sins.

She might have changed her angle a little, or maybe his body had just moved into a slightly different position, but suddenly the hard length hit something in him, slid along a spot that was entirely fire and ice at once and he saw stars in front of his eyes, felt this spot shoot tingling vibes into every part of his body, all the way into his fingertips and toes, and his cock jumped with the sudden thrill and he could feel drops of hot liquid bead at the tip and drip down onto the bed; never had it felt that amazing when he had fucked himself on that dildo, and the long and almost tortured cry he gave was obviously all the confirmation she had needed, as she repeated the motion in just the right way, sliding along this special point inside of him again and again, rubbing it, massaging it with every thrust, and this was it now, he was falling apart, with moans and screams that had taken on a litany of “please please please” all on their own.

This was a different kind of violence, not a fanged one thirsting for blood, but nevertheless transforming him and demanding a sacrifice, as it was crashing with tender insistence through the many forts of his mind and forcing a different kind of stake through his heart, one that was challenging it into beating again instead of silencing it for good, and then one of Sarah’s hands left his hips and sneaked around to grab a firm hold of his cock, his very own and real flesh, stroking it in time with her unrelenting, punishing thrusts, and this undid him now, but instead of bursting into a cloud of bats, like his penchant for theatricality would have deemed a worthy reaction, he just found himself clench and pulse and shake all over with a hoarse cry, his cock spurting thick ropes of his seed over her hand, until all conscious thought had fled and blackness enveloped his senses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out a little longer than I had originally allotted for each part, and as such, it sticks out quite a bit. What can I say in my defence? Krolock is at his most vulnerable in this chapter, literally, and Sarah cared enough to take her time with him.


	8. Fraud

**8\. Fraud**

The sheer lace was crawling in coiled vines and elaborate tendrillar foliage over Sarah’s shoulders and the expanse of her back, a scandalous drawing in darkest burgundy highlighting instead of covering the pale skin shining through, and weaving possessive patterns over the beloved body that did not even need the ostentatious initial of his noble name this time to clearly state his ownership. No showy letter K was featured on this dress, and still, every twist and turn of the design that spread over her like a spider’s web was an unmistakable claim, his signature.

There was blood on this fabric, just like there was blood on his hands and on everything he had touched in his life; the elegant lady who had made the lace so many decades ago was now only a footnote in his biography, but his deception that had cost her her soul and mortality ran like a thread through this book, and through this fabric too. Her zest for life and mastery of beauty — both of which had instilled an overwhelming and damning hunger in him — still showed prominently in the delicate lace, silk thread transformed and elevated to art by skill and imagination — imagination owed to a mortal’s purpose and spun on borrowed time. And yet she was now just another nameless victim, while her handiwork was lending him the means to sign his name without disclosing it.

Krolock let his gaze wander over Sarah again from head to toe, checking every detail, adjusted her necklace here and straightened one of her hairpins there, until he was satisfied, and only then did he press a gentle kiss against her neck. This was his immortal queen, in a dress worthy of her status, and still very much his Sarah, a kind-hearted dreamer and innocent sinner, a consort he was not worthy of and still knew to be his, and his alone.

“It’s-a too bad you can’t see yourself, cara mia!” He whispered against her skin and hid the melancholy of his tone quickly in another kiss against the soft skin behind her ear, careful not to disturb the elegant hair-do he had spent so much time on. “You are beyond-a perfect!”

It was not a shallow compliment, no deception, but the truth. There was no need to use rhetoric on the woman that knew him like no one else — and still did not recoil in horror. No matter how lavishly he dressed her up, she was never in costume, but each layer of luxury merely unveiled her innate grandeur, while she was able to lay him bare with a gaze or touch or kiss alone.

Sarah turned to look into his eyes, mirth tugging at her lips. “I do have a very talented maid, it seems.” She leaned in and caught his lips, and Krolock could not help allowing her smile to wander over onto his own face. “And I don’t need a mirror,” she added in a conspiratorial undertone, “to see myself. I’ve got you, Giovanni.”

“So you do,” he heard himself mutter and fought against the sudden lump in his throat, because in this she was definitely ahead of him who barely had a tenuous hold on his own identity on a good day.

A pair of slender arms came up to hold him, and he allowed himself a sigh when she manoeuvred his head down against her breasts; this dress was deceptively modest in the front with its high neckline and thick opaque velvet, and Krolock had been gleefully amused when he had first presented the garment to her and she had gasped in scandalised outrage over the extremely revealing back, her sheltered upbringing flashing through for a moment, but now he had to admit that the incredible softness of the fabric covering the even greater softness of her curves rivalled the allure of the outright libertine expanse of exposed skin. He knew all too well what hid beneath the velvet, and it felt like a comforting promise to him.

“If you still want to go through with our dinner rendezvous, you need to get ready yourself, my dear husband,” Sarah spoke to him softly, and it only added to the intoxicatingly gentle sensation he already felt himself drowning in. “Either we get you dressed, too,” her hands slid along his shirtsleeves, “or you let me disrobe you completely — let’s not do things by halves.”

Krolock chuckled against her bosom. “The queen wishes her consort naked? What-a will the servants say?”

“Oh, she’d hide you under her skirts. We would not want a scandal now, would we?”

“I wouldn’t mind-a having my dinner under your skirts, m’lady.” Krolock drawled and threw her what he hoped was the lewdest look, and Sarah burst into giggles.

“Come on, you silly man, wine and dine me, and you’ll have dessert later. It’s not every day that you agree to a festive dinner, so I won’t let you get out of this so easily and leave me hanging.” The arms that still held him so dearly were now coming alive and pulled him along and towards the dresser.

“There’s-a nothing hanging, luv,” Krolock tried again and cupped himself through his underpants — and maybe he should not have done that because the contact made him realise acutely how aroused he really was, in a more than sexual, rather needy way —but Sarah just rolled her eyes at him with a groan and threw the bottom half of his dinner suit at him.

“I like to unwrap my presents, Giovanni — after dinner. Where’s your waistcoat?”

“Ah, you will-a have me suffer such… hardship all throughout-a our meal? Mi ecciti così tanto!”

“Tell me something new, my love. — Ah, there it is.”

Krolock let her button him into the waistcoat and then his dress coat, and secretly enjoyed the easy banter. Life could be so simple and carefree, if only… If one only conveniently ignored the solely academic question if this was life after all; Sarah never seemed too fazed by such fruitless rumination, Krolock noticed with no little amazement, and this despite her keen mind. So it had to be the gravity of his accumulated sins, be they from the decades before or the centuries after his transformation, there was no denying it; their weight pulled at him mercilessly whenever he allowed the mask of Pagliaccio to slip. Had he, a man of blood and anger, not corrupted, killed, and maimed countless victims? Had he not lured too many innocent souls into the abyss of a forced metamorphosis, seduced them with fraudulent charms and persuasive eloquence, cheated them out of a timely death that the world deemed law of God or nature? Was it not the finest of ironies that his newly found happiness seemed often enough like the wildest imposture of them all? A fitting _contrapasso_ indeed, to have his identity eroded between his dual nature, between the many masks and aliases! Maybe he had lived too many lives in the past to earn this one.

“Do you want me to do your make-up for you?” Sarah asked into the darkness of his thoughts. “Let me be your mirror?” There was something both cautious and calming in her voice, as if she were so finely attuned to his mood swings that not a single one of them could surprise or shock her anymore; yes, she probably was so attuned to him, this woman who knew him too well.

“I think-I managed quite-a fine so far,” Krolock could not help the petulant remark, but swallowed his anger — anger entirely directed at himself — when she raised a doubtful brow at him. “But how could-I say no to having your hands on me, cara mia?”

Sarah mumbled something incomprehensible and pushed him into the chair by her dressing table, and before he could say anything more, her hands began to dance over his face in an efficient choreography, brushes and make-up sponges tickling and stroking his skin, and it felt like a moment stolen out of time.

“Ceruse for aristocratic pallor, a touch of red for your eyelids and lips, and a careful brush of contouring powder — emphasis on careful — to accent your best features… Yes,” Sarah squinted her eyes at him and nodded with obvious satisfaction. “Less is more. I will make a mess of you after dinner anyway.”

Krolock felt a curious urge to laugh bubble up in him, and it came out halfway between a grunt and a cough. “So, am-I handsome enough for the queen?”

Sarah flashed him a fanged grin. “Good enough to eat.”

He shook his head in wonder. “You do see-a something I cannot see.”

“Well, my dear Giovanni,” Sarah pulled him to his feet and linked her arm with his, “this is entirely fine with me. Your reflection is mine to guard and enjoy.”


	9. Treachery

**9\. Treachery**

He heard the soft tapping of a pair of graceful bare feet and the rustle of heavy fabric coming closer down the hallway, and it gave him enough time to prepare himself and put a more or less relaxed smile on his face that he just hoped didn’t seem too artificial, before Sarah entered the library.

“Highly esteemed Count von Krolock, I come to report that Her Excellency is missing Your Excellency dearly,” she stated in a faux-haughty tone and tapped and rustled closer to where he was sitting at the escritoire, but then she stopped in her tracks and frowned. “Can’t sleep, love?”

Krolock put down his coffee cup and sighed and felt how the carefully constructed smile slipped away, and it was as embarrassing as it was welcome to not have to pretend. “No, too many thoughts-a in my head. I didn’t want-a disturb you, cara mia, with-a my tossing and turning in bed.”

“Oh, Giovanni,” she came close enough to remove the reading glasses from his nose and cradle his head against her silk-wrapped body, “as if your presence could ever disturb me. Would you like to talk about it? Or,” her voice dropped half an octave, “would you rather _toss and turn_ together with me to take your mind of whatever burdens you?”

He did feel a smile form on his face where it was hidden in the folds of the fabric, and this time it was genuine.

“Just-a stay awhile with me?” He whispered against her form and rubbed his cheek against the raw silk, silk which — now that he examined it more closely — was very familiar. “What-a are you wearing there? This is-a… one of my old capes.”

“I found it tucked away in the darkest corner of your closet; what a shame you never wear this one. It’s quite dazzling.” She let go of him to take a step back and spin around in a full circle, making the cape’s ruffles swish and the front gape rather temptingly, hinting at deliciously naked skin under the garment, and the fabric sparkled in countless iridescent hues in the warm candlelight.

“Something from-a my glam rock phase,” he grinned up at her.

“Another mystery from your past revealed!” She smiled back at him, and he could see the joy and pride she took in such a small and mundane detail. It was a never-ending delight with how little she was willing to content herself, despite the undeniable streak of inquisitiveness in her nature.

“What are you reading?” She nodded in the direction of the book that was lying on the desk, page still open where Krolock had left off when his brooding had drowned out the voice of the poet and blurred the beauty of the illustrations and diverted all of his attention to the black pit of his own mind.

“ _Sonetti lussuriosi_ , or _I Modi_ , positions,” he said. “I’m-a considering a new translation.”

Sarah made a small noise of approval and picked up the book. “Positions indeed,” she threw him a lewd look, and then she already flipped through the pages, aha-ed and oho-ed here, mock-gasped there, and —

“Who’s Professor G. Bigoli?” She held up the book and pointed at the bookplate on the front endpaper where the ornate engraving of a bat crowned a tablet spelling out the treacherous name inelaborate letters. “I think I’ve seen this name in a few other books before.”

“Ah, he’s-a.. no one. He’s-a dead,” Krolock mumbled and made a mental note to check his collection for more cases of such incriminating evidence; who knew how many more ghosts of the past lived on in these rare volumes — it was hard to keep track in a library that prided itself on containing almost every book ever written.

Bigoli had fulfilled his purpose and crossed over into an embodiment of failure the moment the alias had returned Krolock to Transylvania and opened him the door to his ancestral home again, bringing doom upon his own family in his wake. It was a name not even worthy of being scratched out of the books and of history; there was no one left to remember his crimes and the real face behind them, no loved one saved and the bonds of trust torn apart.

Sarah didn’t press the matter and continued leafing through the book, squinting at the obscene artwork with obvious interest, and this was certainly a more preferable reaction.

“Some of these,” she began and looked at Krolock, “are rather adventurous, wouldn’t you say? I mean, you would have to be really bendy to maintain balance and enjoy it at the same time.” It sounded almost like a challenge, and he took the book out of her hands to see which of the _modi_ had caught her attention.

“Oh, I’m-a still bendy, I’m-a very bendy, luv,” he waggled her eyebrows at her, before taking in the illustration on the pertinent page; it was indeed a rather adventurous, if not to say acrobatic, position, and he could already feel his joints and muscles ache just trying to imagine himself in the depicted man’s stead, even if another part of his anatomy felt also rather interested all of a sudden. “This,” he coughed, “this is-a surely something we could-a try, and I’m-a definitely strong enough, but,” he looked back up at her and put on his most charming smile, “but-a you, mia Sarah, you are my divine and dignified queen, and not-a vulgar wheelbarrow.”

She hummed knowingly and nudged him until he moved back his chair a little and away from the desk, to make sufficient room for her to sit down on his lap, so that they could resume looking at the book together; feeling the sweet weight of her body perched on his thighs, and the warmth of her skin even through the layers of the borrowed cape and his own suit was almost too much for him.

“Oh, now that’s one lucky girl!” Sarah exclaimed when they came across an engraving that showed a woman in a most fascinating position between two men whose classical beauty suggested they had stepped right out of the workshop of Praxiteles, her face contorted in rapture, while her young lovers skewered her from the front and back with organs that spoke less of the Greek aesthetic ideal than of the wild priapic cults.

Krolock gave a disapproving grunt and closed the book a little too forcefully before putting it on the desk. The feeling of betrayal over the memory of Sarah’s past dalliance with this annoying Alfred, this declared enemy of their kind, if only because the boy had been a thoroughgoing romantic idealist, was still strong, even if the annoying man in question was now one of their kind too, and the closest to a son-in-law Krolock was ever going to get. Thank heaven and hell for the charms of good Herbert who had managed to woe the young would-be hero successfully enough to draw him away from Sarah; and they did seem happy enough, judging from the letters they kept sending from all over Europe, travelling the most illustrious cities in ever-increasing hunger for adventure. For an adoptive son, Herbert had excelled most formidably at following in Krolock’s footsteps and corrupting the innocent.

And, honestly, Krolock really could not blame Sarah for her actions back then; he himself had awakened a new appetite in her, and was it not utterly tempting for a young maiden only beginning to explore womanhood and getting a taste of life, to let herself be courted by both a nobleman and an eager young braver with a courage matching his stupidity? He could not blame her and he had since waved aside all her attempts at explaining herself or apologising for her weak moment of doubt. It could have been a page out of literature, worthy of a Shakespearean drama, or a Russian novel, but Krolock had been able to claim the victory in the end, and Sarah was his, had actively chosen to become his, this was all that counted. Still, the mere thought of her craving anyone else, and be it only as an erotic phantasy…

“I’m-a not willing to share you,” he stated in a serious tone and tightened his arms around her in a forceful embrace that was an unequivocal claim.

Sarah leaned back against his body and pulled his arms around her waist even tighter. “Good, my dear husband, because I’m all yours. I have neither need nor want of another man — you are so many men in one person.” She turned her head just far enough to whisper in his ear. “And we are quite lucky that you can even fill me up both ways at once; we do have the godemiché to help us out, don’t we? With such a perfect replica of your cock, you’ll test my limits in every way.”

Krolock could only groan in response and the sudden urge to physically become one with this wonderful being that was his, his, his, was too strong to ignore. To hell with the fact that this was the library, at least they were sitting right next to the generous shelves that formed the department dedicated to all the sexual perversions; Krolock had always been thorough in his dedication to science.

He pulled her up from his lap just long enough to yank off her — no, his — cape, baring her completely, and to free his cock from his trousers, and then she already lowered herself back onto his lap, onto the thick length, effectively impaling herself on him, obviously eager and ready, and the sudden tight grip of her wet cunt on his cock made him dizzy with pleasure. What a view this was, the creamy skin of her back glowing against the backdrop of the dark wood of the library all around them, with her amber hair cascading down her back in messy curls — Caravaggio could not have painted a more dramatic _chiaroscuro_.

He held her around the waist to support her and give her better leverage as she fucked herself on his cock again and again, in pressing need. The sight of her shapely buttocks rising and falling in the rhythm of their desire, naked skin slapping his clad thighs, was just too good, and he could not stop staring at the point of most intimate connection between their bodies, where his cock disappeared into her again and again, such a riveting sight, and no better reaffirmation of his claim on her.

“Cara mia, so tight!” He moaned into the quiet of the library. “Feel how I fill-a you up, yes? And now imagine how it-a will be when I add the godemiché to fuck your arse.” Sarah sighed and whimpered and squeezed him with her inner muscles in reply, and he let one of his hands wander lower, over the swell of her hips, to firmly grab the flesh of her buttocks. “Oh, you’ll-a be stuffed with my cock from both sides, I’ll-a fill you up to the brim, just-a like my soul fills you up until there’s-a no room for anything or anyone else, and only in-a you can it exist.” And at this he pumped his hips more actively up into her body, to meet her thrust for thrust, and it was when he let a thumb slide into her arse, that she seized up and came violently, her screams echoing among the high vaults and bookshelves, and her cunt squeezing him almost painfully, and nothing was sweeter or more satisfying than to follow her over the edge, until his heart felt so full that it was surely close to bursting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like capellini, bigoli are a form of pasta, similar to spaghetti, but _thicker_ , and popular in Veneto. A fitting choice of alias for our good Count Giovanni Capellini Trovatore von Krolock. "Bigolo" is also a vulgar term for dick, both in the sense of "penis" and "idiot".
> 
> A big shoutout to Lillian for the ex-libris idea! <3


	10. Dis

**10\. Dis**

He could have sworn that the clangour startling him awake was a smashed window, and, indeed, he felt the stone-cold air of a moon-lit forest from long ago flood the bedroom, bite his skin like a pair of fangs, fill his lungs with ice, and he wanted to jump up and confront the intruder, confront the face of the past that was so very familiar, but his body did not obey the command and no sound left his lips when he tried to call out; no, he was trapped, completely frozen, with neither muscles nor voice under his control, and how was that even possible? He was wide awake, and yet there was nothing he could do to alert Sarah to the danger, nothing he could do to defend her, save her…

No, no, just a nightmare, it had to be a nightmare, the _pandàfeche_ visiting him as a nocturnal phantasm, masquerading as memory, and immobilising him with its leaden weight. Save Sarah? He had not even been able to save her from himself.

Krolock forced himself to close his eyes again and calm his nerves; the phenomenon would go away eventually — it always did. And, really, very slowly he felt control gradually return into his limbs and release his tongue, his invisible chains dissolving, and when he was finally able to sit up in bed and take in his surroundings, it was not even a surprise that the room was just as undisturbed as he had last seen it, windows intact, coals still smouldering in the fireplace, and Sarah was sleeping next to him, motionless and relaxed, her face turned away from him and half-hidden under tousled curls.

As nightmares go, this one was definitely not a good one, and neither was it a rare one, but had he not invited it in just like his wolf so many years ago? Had he not brought doom upon himself and everyone he touched ever since by offering his throat to the seducer that had promised so much more than either god or man could offer, the seducer that had enticed the brilliant but desperate scientist, philosopher, and poet, for whom nothing ever seemed enough in his eternal quest and hunger, with the promise of endless fulfilment, both of body and mind?

 _What became of that blazing spirit who vanished into such utter darkness?_ The accusing words of Professor Abronsius reverberated in Krolock’s mind, as sharp and loud as the smashing of glass, and he hated that they still managed to invade his dreams every now and then. Ha, Krolock was fully awake now and felt his thoughts on fire, what had become of him indeed? A fallen angel with the dark, monstrous wings of a bat, using and preying on the innocent? The devil himself — but had Satan not been the most perfect of the alleged god's creatures; why should his fall change this undeniable fact?

Krolock knew what he was: a victor, finally freed from his chains, presiding like a ruler over the realm of the not-quite-dead, transforming and extending his nightly underworld into the reality of light and day! This was what had become of him, and he was not going to let the past obnubilate his victory with petty doubts.

He stretched out again and straightened the blanket, snuggling closer against Sarah’s back, and carefully wrapped his arms around the sleeping form of his consort. No, he had not saved her, but neither had she been his victim, and, seriously, even thinking of her in such terms seemed like a gross insult.

Before Sarah, eternity had been akin to the loneliest place, a hell composed of repetitive loss and continuous isolation, devoid of love, because he had either forgotten how to love or forbid himself to remember. And now, what about now?

Sarah sighed in her slowly fading sleep and began to stir in his arms, her shape slowly coming alive under the blanket.

“Can-a do something for you, carissima?” He whispered into her ear.

“Is that Krolockian for _I have needs, can I use you_?” Sarah grumbled back at him, voice hoarse from sleep, and wiggled her body against the undeniable hardness of his cock, and he was not exactly sure to which extent her mood was truly that grumpy and which part was meant as playful teasing. “I am rather sore, Giovanni, and even our preternatural healing powers do have their limits.”

“I meant what I said,” Krolock nuzzled against her neck and pulled back his hips a little, to remove the inculpatory evidence poking her in the back, “let-a me do something for you. Only for you, my queen.”

With another deep sigh, Sarah turned in his arms and pressed a quick kiss against his lips. “And in return?”

“In return, you will stop-a frowning and grumbling at me, hopefully.”

“You may proceed,” Sarah replied in a most regal tone, and that was definitely playful now, “and put your mouth to good use. No biting, no fingers, no cheating.”

Krolock felt himself break into a grin. “My linguistic skills-a’ unrivalled, as the world-a knows. When I taught in Heidelberg—”

“Promises, promises, _Chiarissimo Professore_ ,” Sarah cut in with a mock-sigh, “stop talking and prove it!”

He freed the both of them of their tangled blanket and draped it like a warm cape around his shoulders before straddling Sarah’s supine form, supporting his weight with his arms on either side of her body, and careful not to prod her again with his stiff cock and thereby suggest any expectations; this had to be only about Sarah’s pleasure now, this much he owed her after having lost control a few times too often recently and taking her too roughly to slake his own appetites. In his heart, he knew that she was not really angry with him, and had she not participated rather enthusiastically, hungrily, when his impetuous moods struck? However, there was a time and place for everything, and if he was entirely honest with himself, he, too, was in need for some gentleness, having made peace with his own intensity, but not wanting it to completely take over his marital bliss.

“If you already mention-a _my_ needs, gioia mia,” Krolock mumbled into the soft valley between her luscious breasts, “I _need_ you to lay back-a and enjoy yourself. Tonight I need-a taste you without devouring you, I need-a see you tremble and hear you sigh without-a drowning out your lust with mine.”

Sarah hummed quietly in reply, but it was an appreciative and enticing sound, and then her hands came up to gently stroke his hair, and he could feel himself melt under her touch. He set out to kiss his way up to the peak of one breast, quick and almost chaste kisses describing the path of the timid pilgrim wandering the circles of hell, then back to the other, lavishing the dusky rose areolas with stronger attention, and feeling the skin tighten and pucker under his lips was the best reassurance that he was doing this right. His mouth kept wandering back and forth between both breasts, deliberately teasing them and evoking a stronger hunger in her. Sarah whimpered softly when he circled a stiff nipple with his tongue, and her hands pushed his face just a little more strongly against her warm and opulent flesh, these mounds that had first caught his eye when he had visited her mortal bed chamber on velvet wings, and then had stirred his imagination ever since the fateful night of the ball when her curves had been clad in daring, blood-red silk, a colour befitting her sacrifice, but also a reminder of her own female power and strength; this first look at his rightful queen was an image etched forever in his mind. No, she had not been a simple victim of his needs, or a useful instrument to fulfil the prophecy.

Krolock now took the nipple carefully between his lips, making sure his longer cuspids did not so much as scratch her skin, not this time, and sucked the firm little peak into his mouth, with just the right pressure to elicit more of her sweet moans. He had made her find the climax of her pleasure just by worshipping her breasts before, surprising her how incredibly sensitive and responsive they were, but this time he had another place in mind that he wanted to treat with the proper love it deserved. So he lingered only long enough to bestow equal attention on the other nipple, before resuming his wandering path of kisses, down her stomach, and pausing just a moment to dip his tongue cheekily into her navel and make her squirm and squeak a little; she had tickled him in a similar way quite a few times before, to his utter shock, because it had shown him how easily she could disarm him and how little he cared, and so retaliation was fair play, especially as he was still restricting himself to the use of his talented mouth alone.

Lower still did he move until he could take a better position and stretch out in the V between her legs and his face brushed the pillowy triangle of amber curls that he adored so much; he was happy to spend hours just playing with it, running his fingers over this patch of coarser yet somehow still soft hair, and its contrast to the silky smooth feel of the skin fold where inner thigh met groin was so much more fascinating than any expensive fabric or luxurious surface. But tonight, touching her here with his fingers or the palm of his hand was out of the question, and he was not going to cheat, no matter how much her lusty sighs indicated that she might not mind at all. He pushed the lower half of his face more strongly against her groin, inhaling the spicy-sweet scent of her arousal, arousal she felt for him, and this realisation was both overwhelming and empowering; Krolock felt her arousal so acutely that it was close to a buzzing in his own body, an electric current running through his limbs, and he could feel how torturously his heavy cock dragged against the sheets that provided enough friction to overstimulate him, but not enough to bring any sort of relief.

Maybe that was a just punishment, after all, and he resigned himself to it with gusto; he pushed a pillow under her bottom and moved her thighs apart some more, cringing inwardly at the faint blue-purplish marks he saw on one of them, where he had grabbed her a little too strongly — had that happened during their frantic coupling on the balcony? or the midnight tryst in the garden? or was it when he had bent her over the armrest of his throne in the middle of the day, because he just had to take her right then and there, forcefully and almost brutally because he was not old, he was quite certainly not old, how dare anyone suggest it, how dare he even think about it himself, and he was going to prove it to this world and to himself? — and that gentle nudge to gain better access to her was all the handling of his beloved he was going to allow himself tonight.

“Give me your hands,” he rasped and stretched out his own to let her grasp and hold them, and that was both comforting and helpful, as the temptation of grabbing and groping and burying his fingers in her cunt was thus successfully countered, and the sensation of her fingers interlacing with his was most beautiful.

With a sweep of his cheek, he brushed aside the curls hiding her folds and the little nub right above, and then he already probed the perky thing with his tongue, cautiously and teasingly, and her thighs shuddered and twitched around him.

“Yes, Giovanni,” she cried out and squeezed his hands, “yes, please!” And so he did it again, let his tongue alternate between broad, flat licks across the entire nub, and more focused circles with the tip of his tongue. Oh, this wonderful cunt of hers had endured quite a lot, stretched around his girth, spanked by his unforgiving thrusts, even letting his whole hand invade it now or then when the urge to just crawl inside her and hide from his own missing reflection was much too powerful to ignore; and she had let him, each time, made him find shelter and acceptance just as much as an outlet when he had to let off steam and take out his moods on her. Sarah seemed to always know best what he needed in any given moment, and it was only fair to show her the same courtesy — in fact, it was even a matter of pride to be the perfect lover she deserved — but this was easier said than done. Centuries defined by taking were not unlearnt that easily, and, true, what he could give, and what he had indeed given her, was nothing less than eternity, but now it was his responsibility to make it worth her time.

He gave the lips of her cunt several good long licks, revelling in the deep moans she let free without shame or reserve, before kissing her there with the same passion as he was used to kissing the lips of her mouth, but much more mindful of his fangs, and just like her mouth, he felt her folds quiver and open under his probing, allow his tongue entrance to play with her gently, until her sighs and moans escalated to higher-pitched cries and one-word pleas, because these were the cue for him to tend to her sensitive pearl once more, and he took it between his lips and sucked hard. Yes, that was the kind of throaty scream he had been waiting for, and he felt it all the way in his own body, from the tips of his fingers that were almost painfully crushed in her iron vice grip, to his buzzing ears that were firmly cushioned between her trembling thighs, and down to his lower abdomen where his own ever-increasing arousal made his muscles tense up in anticipation and the hot and heavy need commanded his hips to rub in minute thrusts against the sheets under him. He doubled his efforts and licked and sucked mercilessly on that so small but yet so powerful part of her, while her hips bucked almost violently against his face, and then she came, heat and wetness and the taste of spiced honey-wine absolving him from himself, and he kept the pace until the last of her tremors had ebbed away and her screams turned into soft sobbing, and it felt only right to murmur the words into the safety of her sated cunt — “he does-a love you, y’know, he can and does” — but she heard it all the same, and that was good and right as well.

Her hands pulled him up and flush against her body, arms and legs and a breathless whisper— “and I do love you” — immediately enfolding him in a claiming, saving embrace, and then she was already plundering his mouth with hers, as if she wanted to chase her own taste on his lips and tongue. Very distantly he became aware that his cock felt soft and overly sensitive between their bodies, and there was a large wet spot on their bed that felt cool and sticky when his legs happened to touch this part of the sheets, but none of that mattered now, and least of all did he matter now, and this was a wonderful state of being.


End file.
